I rub a hand up and down my arm, feeling the goose bumps that rise on the surface, more from his attention than anything to do with the night air.
“Do your tattoos mean anything?” he asks.
I look down my arm, at the intricate lines of a full moon, joined by a sea of clouds and stars.
“A long time ago…” My stomach is already aching with reminders, the discomfort of the past. “I was starting over, and I didn’t know what to do. I drove and drove, with no destination in mind, only the moon and stars as my company. After hours, distance, I had a thought that I couldn’t be the only one looking at the stars, wishing for something better, or different. Less shitty. For a little while, I let that keep me company.”
“Is that why you still look at the stars? Company for when you’re feeling down?”
I shake my head. “It’s no use wishing on a star for something better. If you want things to change, you have to make them. So, when I come out here every night, that’s what I’m looking for. All the ways I’m changing the stars. I look at them and reflect on all the things I’ve done to make sure I’m not in the same place I was before.”
Westley smiles. “I like that. What about your other one?”
“What other one?”
“On your…” He points up and down on his own stomach. “Under your, um—”
“You been checking out me, Mr Romance Reader?” I smirk and see him squeeze the back of his neck.
“You wear a lot of cropped tops.” He’s so flustered. It’s kinda cute. “Besides, I see you looking at mine.”
“Touché. It’s an archer. My star sign is Sagittarius.” I lift my eyebrows and nod to his tattoo, inviting him to answer the same question.
“Phoenix on my thigh, that’s rebirth and renewal. And on my ribs, it’s the date my parents adopted me.”
I find myself pushing off the lounge and wandering over to the balcony edge. “How old were you when you were adopted?”
Westley does the same, meeting me at his railing. We’re only a few meters away from each other now, but I swear I can still smell the faint traces of apple from his cologne.
“Six weeks.”
My eyes practically bug out of my head. “Six weeks?”
He nods. “I was left at the hospital where my mother had me. I never found out who she was, but I found a little about my dad a few years back.”
“But you don’t have a relationship with him?”
“No. I have the best parents anyone could hope for. They’re the only ones I’ve ever known. He made no effort to find me, nor I him. It was actually my half-sister who found me.”
“When did you find out you were adopted?”
Westley hums in thought. “I was quite young. My dad being Jamaican was kinda a giveaway. But I became more aware when kids at school pointed it out. I’d never really questioned it because I never felt out of place at home. To me, family isn’t blood, it’s who you’d bleed for.”
His words settle something inside of me. A thought I’ve wrestled with many times over the years.
“You truly don’t wish your birth parents raised you?” I ask, the idea hitting so close to home.
“I think I ended up exactly where I was meant to be.”
The moment catches us both in a spell. One where the questions of my own upbringing and all the choices I’ve made to get to where I am spin in a vortex of unease. Always asking the same thing. Did I do the right thing? Am I doing enough? Could I have made a difference before it all went to hell? If I had the chance to do it all over again, what would I change, or would I make the same choices?
“Are you also a crazy person who can drink coffee at any time of night?” Westley gestures to the mug in my hands.
“This is a mocha. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.” I shrug. “A habit left over from being up all night with a newborn.”
“There are worse habits,” he says. “A little chocolate and caffeine before bed is hardly something to lose sleep over.”Don’t I know it.
I chuckle. “Unless you’re someone who actually can’t sleep after sugar and coffee.”
